Flowers of Madness
by scrapbullet
Summary: Mohinder sits at Molly's grave and is joined by a familiar face. Character death and one certain theme shamefully yoinked from Hamlet, god bless Shakespeare.


Disclaimer; I own nothing. At. All. This piece of writing is intended for entertainment purposes only and I am not associated, or know, any of the characters mentioned from Heroes, or those crazy people that are involved with it. Thank you.

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**Flowers of Madness**

Molly's passing, with the gentle sprinkle of scented flowers on a grave that bears a body too young, scattered with insanity yet loved dearly. Though it's only the nature of her death does she share with the character of Ophelia herself, daughter of Polonius and sister to the strong Laertes. The similarities lie only in the death and the madness that had eaten away at her core, for there was no Hamlet to touch at her heart and corrupt her. No, she did that perfectly well by herself.

It's night, and the wind is chill, biting at the human, vulnerable fingers that smooth over the stone reverently, brushing away the snow to reveal the words engraved there; Molly Walker. Mohinder sits here, cross-legged on the still fresh grave and simply stares, half expecting his daughter -- yes, what else was she, but his daughter? Not of blood, but of heart -- to reach up and brush away those silent tears.

But she doesn't. Of course.

"It was your fault, you know. She died... such a pretty death. Ophelia; drowned in the brook... There is such beauty in death."

Mohinder merely shakes his head, leaning into the warm touch on his shoulder, shoulders sagging with the weight of the world. With the weight of her dying, of accusations in the air and fingers that do more than scold; they stab like a knife.

"You left her, Mohinder. And your blood... its sweetness was too corrupted." Sylar kneels, fingers like frost lacing with his pets own fingers, almost as if he's taking pity on him. Pity for the pet, who curls up shivering beside his Master night after night with the image of it all inside his head; of Molly face down in the water, lips a chilling blue and not a breath in her lungs. "Your blood caused her insanity."

A hitch in breath that is too sharp, too short and Mohinder falls back, letting Sylar take all of his weight as he closes his eyes and trembles. "She's dead." He moans. "Dead." His fingers arch into cruel claws that dig into the soft dirt, to reach the finality of the coffin below, staining the soft pads of his fingertips, which are wrenched away too quickly.

"Yes, and it's your fault." Despite the harsh words, a hand soothes through his hair in a bid to calm him -- for of what use is a hysterical lover? – and it works, to some extent. Through the tears of grief and anger, Mohinder can only lean on his current life-line, though he is certainly as broken as poor Molly had been before her life had been torn away from her.

Sylar continues. "And was it suicide, I wonder?" He seems almost smug, amused. For in secret, that crucial element in the matter of her brain had been consumed. "Or was it simply... a tragic accident? Ah... Que sera, sera."

"You could be more sympathetic, you know." Mohinder snarls softly, though the only response he receives is a tightening of the fingers in his hair, sharp and painful. "I loved her. She was my daughter."

"Then you should know by now that you destroy everything that you hold dear. Your father was first, so it was only a matter of time for your darling Molly." No longer is there any malice where it once would have been; it's casual. Sylar has told his precious Mohinder many times now. "Besides myself... of course." The hair stroking seems to have become more than a little bit condescending, mocking, which is why Sylar keeps it firm and controlled. "_Frailty, thy name is woman._"

Mohinder sniffs, half to dispel the mucus that had accumulated along with the salty tears, and half to say to Sylar just how unimpressed he is him. "Bastard."

"And yet you still love me. How... strange."

Shaking his head, the geneticist only heaves out a soft sigh, careful to wipe his dirt smeared hands on his pants before he touches the cold stone of the grave marker once more. "At least... at least it was painless." Mohinder murmurs, cheeks stained with tear-tracks. "At least she doesn't have to suffer any longer."

And suddenly there's warm lips pressed against his temple, uncommonly genuine and tender, Sylar's brief moment of strange affection and comfort. And it's soothing, the warm heat at his back, even though his Master had voiced the very words that had been plaguing Mohinder since the funeral this morning, since the angry accusations had come pouring from Matt's lips. Since his 'friend' had thrown the first and only punch, marring Mohinder's face with the mark of his failure.

So Mohinder leans back and soaks it all up, unknowing that the lover that comforts him so had aided in his Molly's death, had held her steady as she began the climb up into the branches. Had watched as she fell and drowned. Mohinder is unable to read minds, and so, Sylar's secret is safe...

...Safe in the knowledge that he holds the one and only place in Mohinder's heart.

Leaning in, he wraps his arms around his pet's body, thankful at least that the geneticist surrenders so easily to his will, to this strange kind of love that they have for each other. Sylar sighs softly, breath fogging in the air as his chin is propped casually on the subtle arch of Mohinders shoulder.

"And... the rest is silence."


End file.
